


bad news

by thatbluebox



Series: road trip au [1]
Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Canon Divergence, F/M, Road Trip, gritty and angsty just the way i like it, hints of dark!skyeward, the road trip au where ward helps skye find her father; yes that one
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-27
Updated: 2014-11-27
Packaged: 2018-02-24 06:29:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2571566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thatbluebox/pseuds/thatbluebox
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>where ward keeps his promises, and skye makes sure he delivers. a road trip that includes burning alcohol, dusty motels and route 66 as their race track.</p>
            </blockquote>





	bad news

**Author's Note:**

> please note this was originally conceptualized before 2x08, and pretty much takes place in a realm where ward and skye decide that together they'll find her father. thus the canon divergence. (also: i am but a humble canadian with no real knowledge of american highways other than fiction, so tell me if anything feels too far fetched k). 
> 
> additionally, it's my first time writing these two, and this au wouldn't leave me be. so alas, here we are. i am nothing but skye/ward trash. see end notes for more (specifically garfunkel).

It starts with a hastily packed duffle bag in the backseat. A pistol sheathed within the waistband of her jeans. 

When he meets her in that dingy alleyway on the outskirts of the city, his eyes catch its outline; unmistakable and threateningly self aware. He doesn't mention it and she doesn't offer an explanation. Instead, he lets her settle into the passenger side first, years of training tell him to placate his movements, to allocate space.

(To give her the opportunity to back out.)   

She doesn't, however, and he can feel her eyes on him before he opens he door. 

"Ready?" 

She doesn't dignify him with a response, so he drives. 

By the time the city disappears in a trail of overpasses and traffic lights, the only light is the soft glow of the speedometer and the blur of streetlights behind them. She's gotten good, he notices; the lack of fidgeting, the appearance of self assurance. But he picks out the flaws - the stillness of her hands, the rigid posture and pressed lips. He knows it bothers her that he can pick her apart like this, but then again, he's never been so dismantled by another person before either. 

Not a mile out she rolls down her window, the air between them heavy and thick. 

It's another five miles before he breaks it. 

"Does Coulson know?"

"He doesn't have to."

They drive all night, from dusk 'til dawn.

-

They don't stop until well after eight, when Ward decides to pull over at the closest gas station to fill up. She stays in the car while he goes inside, and it's here she finally allows herself to relax; one breath, two breaths. Without the familiar growl of the accelerator its strangely quiet inside, and she takes a moment to survey the red chevy he so affluently provides.  

 _Typical Grant Ward_ , she muses, as her eyes fall upon the interior.

(She reminds herself she doesn't know his 'typical' nature, not really.)

The car is nearly spotless, but she can tell he's been using it for a while. Smudges on the radio. Bits of trash wedged underneath the seats. A car freshener dangles from the rearview mirror and reeks like manufactured pine. She pokes around, curiosity getting the best of her. The leather's worn, the dash is dusty, and Skye has half the heart to guess that the cassette player is the only thing that works. It's beaten, but well loved in its milage. How he's managed to acquire it after months in lock up baffles her. 

And worst of all, _it reminds her of her van._

She lets herself out of the car, and takes a trembling breath. 

A minute later he appears carrying a tray with two cups of coffee, proceeded with a small paper bag. He slows when he sees her out of the car, assessing her crossed arms and stiff body language. His approach is calculated and watchful, and when she takes notice of him, part of her is in a state to punch him. 

In the end the coffee is disgustingly bitter and too hot, but she welcomes the burn. 

-

They break at a motel at the fringes of a small town off the 66. It's dubious at best, with burnt out light bulbs and cracked pavement, but that's exactly what they need. The type of place that asks few questions and prefers cash over credit. When he returns from the offices, she's standing outside the car, the rising sun silhouetting her figure against the blasted desert landscape. Her duffle bag hangs over her shoulder, shirt loose and wrinkled, black sunglasses perched over her nose with an expression that's a shot from sour, and for a moment he's struck by the gravity of her. 

(What he doesn't know is that she's thinking the same thing: leather jacket. Five o'clock shadow. Cheap motel with pink siding.)

This has disaster written all over it; but what part of their relationship isn't some fucked up cliché? 

He holds up two keys, and he notices the slight relaxing of her shoulders before she steps forward to swipe one of of his hands. Her face is carefully arranged in a mask of indifference, his own one of thinly concealed arrogance.

(They both know the other is acting, but this game is so much easier to play.)

"Room four fifty," He calls after her, when she continues on without him. She doesn't even turn around as she points to the gun handle that pokes out of her jeans, painfully obvious now in the hot sun. This attitude is something he expects from the old Skye, the one who said 'bang' when she turns and fires. Now her flippancy is dangerously edged, which he can't help but find disarmingly charming.  

Ward gets the message: I can take care of myself. 

(Doesn't mean that he'll let her out of his sights so easily.)

-

The bar is dank, musty and smells like piss, but that doesn't scare her off from ordering some hard liquor.  

Its been three days since the dark alley, six since the call, and twenty four minutes since they've landed themselves at this shamble of a bar. While she can't quite piece together how he manages to know these people, or their piss poor hideouts, she chalks it up to his excellence as a soul-sucking, scum bag dealing, double crossing, turn coat loving, non-shaving Hydra agent.

She stares at the glass of amber liquid; yikes, nice to know alcohol still brought out the best in her. 

Skye settles her forehead on the bar's counter.  _Fuck._

This was exactly why she doesn't like to be alone with her thoughts; neither at the playground or here.  She has half the mind to realize: _no, I'm not drunk enough to wrestle with my impulsive decisions just yet._ She hasn't been this hell bent on getting drunk since Miles. It's a bad idea. She doesn't need another round of Daniels. 

(She remembers the eyes of her team as they process what she tells them. Sympathetic, yes. Comprehending, no.)

She throws back her drink, winces. 

(The guilt she feels that comes with the desire to find him - murderer, ghost - _father_.)

Skye waves down the balding bartender, who is fixating her with a look that she doesn't have the heart to refute. 

(The stupid, reckless decision that came from a surprisingly clear head.) 

He tops her up. 

(The weight of five inexplicable words: _tell me where and when_.)

Hell, this place reeks of questionable decisions and spilled beer.  

 

He joins her ten minutes later.

-

Skye fiddles with the radio, something he notices whenever the silence gets unbearable. 

Her determination to keep the distance between them involves a steady silence, little eye contact, and a trying expressionless facade. It slips from time to time, which he can only assumes is because of her suppressed extroverted personality. He can tell that she's growing impatient, that the car puts her off, and that she still still jumps around him despite the gun at her side. He's also never seen her throw back so much liquor. 

Yet, she's both determined, resolute, and stubborn as ever, with dark eyes that still manage to captivate him despite the false bravado. It's both unsettling as it is impressive, something he's getting used to with this changed Skye. 

She picks a station that's playing some sort of electronic mix, and settles back into her seat. He stifles a groan.  

"Sorry it's not Simon and Garfunkel," 

He turns to her in mild surprise. 

"I poked around a bit." She shrugs with little shame. "Honestly surprised I didn't find a record player afterwards." 

"You went through my stuff?"

She throws him a look, a look that is achingly familiar to the days when she called him awful metaphors associated with robo-cop. 

He makes a noise at the back of his throat. "Any other objections?"

Skye looks mildly uncomfortable, before she turns away. "Yes - you have the taste of a fifty year old." 

His mouth quirks upwards. "I'll remember that." 

(She slips more often.)

-

"How much longer?" 

"About ten more miles; I'm told we'll find this guy in an old abandoned factory plant to the left." 

She heaves a sigh. "Abandoned warehouse, great." He hides his smile.

"Stay in the car. I'll scope it out, and if we're lucky, he'll have better information than the last."

Skye turns to him with a scowl, clearly unimpressed. He expects nothing less. 

"No, I'm not staying in this car one more time -"

"You haven't stayed in the car for the past _three times_ ," He gives her a pointed look, and her eyes narrow in memory of her last attempt to talk - no, interrogate - one of his leads. It had ended with bloody knuckles, spinning wheels and sand in their lungs. Later it was a clumsily worded fight, one that ended with slamming car doors and ugly accusations.  

Clearly this is something she doesn't want to bring up. "I'll be _fine_." 

"That's not how it works." 

"Yes it is," She's leaning forward now, and while the seatbelt has been long forgotten during their miles, it's the closest she's willingly come to him in days. "I'm coming, whether you like it or not. This is my own shitty quest, remember."

(Famous last words.)

-

They nearly die. 

It's the first time she's used her gun in ages, and the first time they've worked together as a partners since ... Well, since _before_. However, this time Skye's been trained by May, and she's clambering up behind Ward before he can tell her otherwise. He has half the mind to be both impressed and turned on when things go from good to bad. 

Turns out Ward's contact was in deep shit long before with some local gang, and they just so happened to get caught up in it. 

"Abandoned warehouse, huh?" Skye manages to say before they duck and cover. Shots ring out.  

Before he can stop her, she's pulling out her gun and making a break towards their target. He curses, hisses her name. She ignores him.

She ends up taking out a guy in the knees before he takes a shot at Ward, which is really too busy dealing with three men with wicked looking knives. His gun lies off to the the side, and he's in hand to hand combat. A split second hesitation is quickly overshadowed by her acute aim, and the man drops, just in time for Ward to spin around and notice the threat. His eyes find hers almost methodically, and she has three seconds to relish his expression before he shouts; two more seconds before she feels the explosive pain as someone cuffs her. Forty seconds later before he's out cold. 

They escape with a few gun shot holes to the chevy, a bloody nose and several cuts. In no time they're rocketing down the highway in a dust cloud and a small wake of destruction behind them. They can still see the plume of smoke from the rearview mirror before the car speeds around a corner, and Skye slams against the back of her seat. Her heart is in her throat, her ears are ringing, and the smell of oil stains her skin. 

(It's positively  _electrifying_.)

-

Things get more dangerous after that. 

Something changes in Skye after the warehouse, and it's just short of taking his breath away.

It's four am and Skye's impromptu lead finds them bleeding on some backroad, in some god forsaken little town off the route. Ward has already strung together a long winded string of curses, and she's seeing red down the front of her shirt when she notices it. The next moment she's kicking in the side door of the town's general store, stealing into the advertised pharmaceutical section, and taking supplies off the shelves with sloppy prose. 

"You're dripping blood _everywhere_." She hisses at him, as if it was his fault. It _is_ his fault; he shouldn't have taken that blow for her. 

"That's what happens when your chest has been sliced with a boarding knife." He shoots back at her, and he grabs a bottle of antiseptic. 

"Who the fuck carries around a _boarding knife._ " As if he knows.

"Was not my priority to ask his name," He responds dryly.

Dogs start barking, there are a few shouts that start to wake the town. Time to go. 

When they get to the car, she wheels on him.

"Don't _ever_ do that for me."

This feels familiar.

"It was tactical," He pushes past her, can sense they're both tense, frustrated, and short fused from the exchange. 

"I can take care of myself." 

"Get in the car,"

"Do not underestimate me, Ward." 

"Get in the car, Skye." 

They stare at each other for a good ten seconds; her eyes dangerously narrow, blood seeps from his wound, and the sharp smell of antiseptic stings the air. 

"I'm not some defenceless little girl anymore." 

(I'm not that same scared little kid.)

"I know, Skye. Trust me, I _know_." 

When she relents and pulls open the passenger door, he finally lets out a breath.

 It's then that something shifts dramatically between them, where in hindsight, is arguably where this road trip was destined all along. 

( _Tell me where and when_.)

-

It's not like she ran away from shield. It's not like she means to hurt them, or that she doesn't miss them. 

It's just that fractures don't seem so sharp when there's someone who is just as fundamentally fucked up as you are. 

-

She hacks a lead's email address at a café while he gets them a coffee. The bags under her eyes are nearly gone, and their is a confidence to her efficiency that wasn't there weeks ago. She still makes jabs at him, all laced with vinegar, but follows suit with a smile that could be considered precarious. In the end their conversations are nothing more than superficial, but it's more than silence, and it's also righteously intoxicating.  

"Got her." She points to the screen when he comes up behind her, drinks in hands. Three sugars. One large helping of cream. She's disgustingly sweet like that. 

("There is a witticism here waiting to be used.")

"Just under twenty minutes, not too bad." He leans over her shoulder; she reflexively straightens, but she doesn't move away.  

"According to the last guy, she was there in 1989." She doesn't have to clarify where.  "If we're lucky, she'll have some intel on what happened."

"You think she survived because she has some sort of connection to him?" Your father.

She shrugs, takes a sip of her coffee. "It's better than whatever you've come up with so far." Skye looks up to see his expression. "Don't look so offended." 

She placates him with a sultry smile that's too tight to be real. 

"Whatever you say, rookie." Her face shutters for a moment, and he bites back his next words. He's learned that new territory is better than old with them. It's a careful dance they've both mastered, yet fall short on occasionally. But they're good at pretending, and it's getting easier all the time.

"Where is she now?"

"Palo Alto - how fast can you drive us there?"

He glances at his watch. "We'll have to take a detour. Probably eight hours." 

She gives him a look, and tilts her head and gives him the disgustingly-sweet-coffee smile. "But you'll make it seven." 

(Sometimes it doesn't feel like pretend at all.)

"I'll bet six." 

-

In the end, it doesn't really seem to matter how they get there.

It's a warm and clear night; the perfect backdrop for would be's and greater mistakes. They pull into a city off the route which is all neon lights and dusty side streets and it's obvious that neither are looking for a quiet night in. Her smile is infectious, and his eyes have trouble pulling away from her mouth. It's dangerous and secretive, painted bright red. 

Tomorrow they're meeting someone who knows him. Her father. And she's insisting on celebrating before the wait drives her mad. 

Inside its dark, too crowded, and feels like the place where dirty sex happens in the bathroom stalls. Skye has the nerve to swipe a drunk's cowboy hat with a sloppy wink, before heading to the bar, where he pays for another round. He has half the mind she expects dancing. 

"I saved your life, remember?" She says, after her second, "The least you can do is open a tab."

And that's where it happens, in this dark corner with empty glasses and blue lighting; she thanks him. 

-

It ends as she throws her duffle bag into the backseat, her eyes as bright as the glow of dusk. Her favourite pistol at her waist. 

"Ready?" 

 For a second Ward can think of nothing sexier than the smell of gasoline and her voice in the passenger seat. 

_(Maybe you could be monsters together.)_

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I'd like to say that Ward listening to Simon and Garfunkel is inspired directly from NezumiPi and her works 'There is Nothing Special About Grant Ward' and 'There is Nothing Safe About Grant Ward'. I cannot think of Ward listening to anything but to what she describes, tbh.


End file.
